To begin with, at the midday dinner, Wolf Larsen informed the hunters that they were to eat thenceforth in the steerage. It was an unprecedented thing on sealing-schooners, where it is the custom for the hunters to rank, unofficially as officers. He gave no reason, but his motive was obvious enough. Horner and Smoke had been displaying a gallantry toward Maud Brewster, ludicrous in itself and inoffensive to her, but to him evidently distasteful. The announcement was received with black silence, though the other four hunters glanced significantly at the two who had been the cause of their banishment. Jock Horner, quiet as was his way, gave no sign; but the blood surged darkly across Smoke’s forehead, and he half opened his mouth to speak. Wolf Larsen was watching him, waiting for him, the steely glitter in his eyes; but Smoke closed his mouth again without having said anything. “Anything to say?” the other demanded aggressively. It was a challenge, but Smoke refused to accept it. “About what?” he asked, so innocently that Wolf Larsen was disconcerted, while the others smiled. “Oh, nothing,” Wolf Larsen said lamely. “I just thought you might want to register a kick.” “About what?” asked the imperturbable Smoke. Smoke’s mates were now smiling broadly. His captain could have killed him, and I doubt not that blood would have flowed had not Maud Brewster been present. For that matter, it was her presence which enabled Smoke to act as he did. He was too discreet and cautious a man to incur Wolf Larsen’s anger at a time when that anger could be expressed in terms stronger than words. I was in fear that a struggle might take place, but a cry from the helmsman made it easy for the situation to save itself. “Smoke ho!” the cry came down the open companion-way. “How’s it bear?” Wolf Larsen called up. “Dead astern, sir.” “Maybe it’s a Russian,” suggested Latimer. His words brought anxiety into the faces of the other hunters. A Russian could mean but one thing—a cruiser. The hunters, never more than roughly aware of the position of the ship, nevertheless knew that we were close to the boundaries of the forbidden sea, while Wolf Larsen’s record as a poacher was notorious. All eyes centred upon him. “We’re dead safe,” he assured them with a laugh. “No salt mines this time, Smoke. But I’ll tell you what—I’ll lay odds of five to one it’s the _Macedonia_.” No one accepted his offer, and he went on: “In which event, I’ll lay ten to one there’s trouble breezing up.” “No, thank you,” Latimer spoke up. “I don’t object to losing my money, but I like to get a run for it anyway. There never was a time when there wasn’t trouble when you and that brother of yours got together, and I’ll lay twenty to one on that.”